I have people to kill, lives to ruin, plagues to bring, and worlds to destroy. I am not the Angel of Death. I'm a fiction writer.

Installment 6: Meet Me by the Gate

I went to see Margo today. It’s still hard for me to take her seriously. I keep forgetting that she isn’t playing doctor. I halfway expect Dr. Miller to come in and take his coat and stethoscope back. Dr. Miller, the old town doctor sold his practice to Margo when she finished her residency.

Allie and I helped her “redecorate” his office when she took over. We started by removing Dr. Miller’s physician’s brick-a-brack. The exam rooms were a sea of plastic models and three dimensional posters – hip bones, hearts, digestive systems, ulcers, arteries, and sinuses. Every wall and surface was plastered and stacked with the stuff.

We replaced it with caramel colored walls and poster size photographs Margo took on a trip to Europe her parents had given her when she graduated. Each exam room was a different country. I was in the French room with pictures of the Eiffel Tower, the Arch de Triumph, and a bridge over a quaint little brook with flower boxes bursting with pink and purple flowers.

Margo was surprised that Charlie wasn’t with me. She admonished me for not talking to him yet.

“You have to tell Charlie,” she said, going over my labs.

Once I told them, there would be no more pretending, no more places to hide. I really would have cancer.

“And Allie too.”

“Yep,” I said, focusing the caramel colored walls.

I studied a photograph of a church, not Notre Dame, but a small country church with large arches constructed of gray stone. Climbing vines thick with pink flowers obscured the doorway. I imagined you could discover the real France, alone in the early hours of the morning before tourists were crowding the roads and countryside.

“I’m sending you to Dr. Goldschmidt. He’s the best oncologist in Dallas.”

“Did all of France look like it was just pulled from the pages of a fairytale?”

“This is serious,” Margo replied.

She didn’t seem to understand what this had done to my world.

“I was just wondering. I always thought I’d go there someday, when Logan was older and settled.”

“You’re still going.”

I wasn’t sure, though I didn’t tell Margo.

“Yep, France when I’m seventy. That’s the plan. Maybe you and Allie can come with me. Girls gone wild… with canes. We’ll trip the Frenchmen.”

I usually make her roar with laughter, but not today.

“I’m taking you out on disability. Friday’s your last day.”

Margo turned back to her medical records, trying to be all business again, but I caught sight of the tears she was blinking back.

“I was thinking I’d keep working.”

“You work fifty hours a week,” she said.

“I’ll work less hours.”

“You won’t.”

“I want to work until I can’t anymore.”

“You can’t anymore. You’ll have a lot of doctors’ appointments over the next few weeks, the oncologist, radiologist, nutritionist. Once you start treatment, you won’t feel like it anymore,” Margo replied.

I don’t remember much about Mom while she was sick, not really sick. My grandmother and father kept me away from her, especially towards the end. How did she feel? How would I feel if things don’t go well?

Very well written. You’ve had me hooked on every word. You express so much emotion in your writing, you make people realise how these situations can change someone’s life. Keep it up. A truly inspiring read. Courtney ❤